


act two: love

by pegaeae



Series: the life, the lyna, the legend [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pegaeae/pseuds/pegaeae
Summary: there are no trees planted on a battlefield





	act two: love

she tastes like high summer even in the depths of winter, bitter herbs and sunshine, the warmth of her lips and the bite of her teeth enough to pull him from his complacency, enough to encourage him to pull her into his arms and dance her back and forth.

she bends like willow, pliable, elegant, hair a dark waterfall spilled over brown limbs. he holds her close to him, soft flesh to soft flesh, kisses against her neck until she arches her back, wraps her fingers around his wrists. his stomach bubbles, light and warm like champagne, heart bursting at his throat as he puts lips to skin and blinks back the tears that threaten to spill just as readily as his words

_i love you, i love you, i love you_

his eyelashes brush against the high curve of her cheekbone and she inhales, one shuddering breath that shakes her body, makes his blood sing in his veins, ring in his ears. he knows every dip and every curve of that body, the rough, raised skin of her scars, the dark moles that dot her like the path on a treasure map, guiding him to the spots that make her writhe and moan. 

he thinks:  _how lucky am i_ , as he lifts his wife until she is clear off the floor, kicking her feet and laughing as she tries to get her arms around his neck, tries to kiss him soundly, every piece of them thrumming, singing the same word:  _love love love_

this is not the life either of them had envisioned five years ago when they’d run at each other, knives out, desperately trying to kill and be killed simultaneously, eager for nothing more than the spray of blood and the end of their lives and the theoretical reunion with those they’d lost long ago.

_there are no trees planted on a battlefield,_ lyna had told him, one of those rare days where she lay with her head pillowed on his chest, fingers stroking his hair as she stared out at the forest around them.  _when i die, there will be another emerald grave._

they planted trees together: an oak for tamlen, steady and strong, and a poinciana for rinna, regal and red. she cried when they did, wrist-deep in soil and hunched over, shoulders shaking as she finally finished the funerary rite she was unable to perform so long ago.

he is astounded by how far they’ve come: from despondence, from hatred, from barely living–to this, to being wrapped around one another in their comfortable bed, her smile sending butterflies through his body every time he sees it. he thinks: if he could go back and tell his past self something, he would tell him to be braver, to hold on–because nothing is better than the way that she makes him feel. nothing is better than the heat of her skin and the taste of her mouth, the smell of her soap and the silk of her hair.

nothing is better than her.


End file.
